


This

by TrulyCertain



Series: Armour 'verse [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Time, tentfic, yes that sort of tentfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-06 18:36:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16838146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrulyCertain/pseuds/TrulyCertain
Summary: “So, we could… play cards?”“I thought you might have other ideas. But I’m sure I have some…”“Or… maybe you’re right. Other ideas.”





	This

She’s not a very good Tower mage. It has always been true - she’s no good with a staff, and she always seemed to trip when wearing robes - but this way, in particular. Tower mages are meant to be confident, overly acquainted with closets, confident and always ready to _touch_. She… isn’t. She thinks of stereotypical sorceresses in books, all swaying hips and forbidden kisses and expert hands, and she does a mental comparison. For all Zev’s jokes (and they are only jokes), she’s a scruffy, dowdy, trouser-wearing mage, broad from a sword and awkward at the prospect of showing even a little skin. Certainly not much of a romance novel heroine.

She puts her face in her hands, her cheeks heating.

She can’t quite believe she’s thinking these things. Often she finds herself mentally changing the subject or hiding her eyes, in case Alistair sees her face and knows what’s going through her head. However, she _is_ thinking these things, and recently, far too much.

The thought of _that_ was always a mildly interesting one, but also one she firmly put aside. There was no time to consider it. She’d never even kissed a man, never mind… well. Truthfully, she doubted it would ever happen. There was no-one in the Tower she cared for, and she wasn’t content with some quick dalliance in a wardrobe. It seemed such a heavy, important thing, to trust someone that way, to allow them so much. What if it all went wrong? What if they were disappointed? What if…?

But so many of the _what if_ s running through her mind assume unkindness, and Alistair might quite possibly be the kindest man she’s ever met. It’s in everything he does: the way he speaks, the way he looks at her. The way he touches her.

More and more these days, she finds herself watching his hands. It’s quite something, the way he can use a sword, with frightening grace and white knuckles and so many scars, and yet touch her with something approaching reverence. It’s a small, stupid thing, but she remembers twisting her ankle, nearly falling into a ditch at the side of the road; he caught her as if it was second nature, his hands gentle on her shoulders, all but cradling her. The way he carried her out of the river in the Brecilian Forest, holding tight as if she was something precious, as if he was afraid to let go. The way he’ll reach out sometimes to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear, or just take her hand. She was told many stories of swordsmen, of Wardens, but not that they could be so gentle. Maybe it’s just him.

Then there’s the way he kisses her sometimes, pressing her to him, running a hand up her back, resting it between her shoulders as if to urge her closer still. There are times when he’s touching her and she feels him pause, stop himself; always careful, always chivalrous, as if there’s a line he’s afraid to cross. Surely there shouldn’t be occasions when she regrets that?

She understands a little of it. It’s as if, now she’s allowed to touch, she can’t stop. She’ll reach out and lay a hand on his arm when she’s stepping past him for something. She’ll rest her head on his shoulder when they’re sitting by the fire, hoping he might slip an arm round her; he always does, almost as if he’s read her mind. If they camp or stop for something, she’ll make excuses to quietly pull him aside and kiss him, needing the feel of it, the reminder; quite often, he’ll already have had the same thought. Their companions have started to roll their eyes every time she announces a pressing need to collect firewood. And yes, often she, too, will have to stop herself from questing further, from crossing lines. She’ll hesitate, step away, and he’ll watch her with a question and a little guilt in his eyes, as if he knows exactly what she’s thinking. As if he’s thinking it, too.

She trusts him completely, and she wants to offer him the same. She doesn’t want to push him, to hurt him. She never wants to hurt him. And yet she thinks these things, and she wants these things.

Maker, what is _happening_ to her?

She thinks she might be going a little mad. Likely not the bad sort of mad; she’s certain it’s nothing to do with demons, or spells gone astray. It was easier when her thoughts on the subject were all theoretical - when she didn’t want to kiss him all the time, or touch him, or… She tries not to go pink, runs a shaking hand through her hair.

She finds herself looking at him so much, too much, enchanted by small things like the way the sun catches on his hair or the breadth of his shoulders. There are mornings where he’ll walk through camp bleary, half-dressed due to sleep or meditation, too exhausted to be embarrassed, and she’ll have to struggle not to stare. Or there’s something even more foolish that leaves her tripping over her words, like simply the way his face suits him or the way he smiles at her. He’s like nothing she’s seen before, and the more she looks at him, the more she finds to admire; she tries to hide it, but he fascinates her.

She healed an injury of his recently and found herself running her fingers over his collarbone, wondering what it would be like to press a kiss there. She looked up and found him watching her, and the look in his eyes made her breath catch.

It hit her one day, this awareness of him and his touch, this pull, and it’s never quite left her. The strength of it almost frightens her. The demons and the novels, they never prepared her for this. Nothing did.

She wonders if it’s the same for him. Such a thought hadn’t really occurred to her; she never seemed particularly popular in the Tower, was never chased by any of the other apprentices, and she’s never considered herself of much interest. But then there were the robes Leliana found and made her try on - the ones that didn’t seem to cover much, despite the stockings. She’d caught him pretending not to look at her legs. She was embarrassed and wondering where in the Fade she’d put her sword, so she ended up changing back into leathers and splintmail very quickly, but she did find herself flattered by the blush in his cheeks, the way he seemed suddenly unable to look at her. (Leliana calls her oblivious, but there are certain things she recognises.) 

And now and again, when they’re alone, he calls her beautiful - quietly, rough-voiced, as if he’s telling her a secret. She prepared herself for mountains and for vast blue skies, but she sometimes looks at him when he says such things, and the sight… It makes her think that even with every moment of fear and darkness and all her trepidation, it was worth leaving the Tower just for this. Just for him.

It’s such a daft thought that she often finds herself looking away from him, flushing, but one of those gentle hands will raise her chin and he’ll tell her again, kissing her as if he’s offering confirmation, trying to convince her. Sometimes she wishes, just for a moment, that she could see herself through his eyes, but she’s slightly afraid of what she might find. It seems too much to hope for, that anyone would want her in such a way - but perhaps he does.

She wonders. She wonders whether he’s having these same doubts. She thinks about his hands, and his gentleness, and the way he kisses her, and her growing certainty that she loves him, and she admits in the back of her mind that if it happened, it might be… wonderful. She flushes anew at the thought, a hand to her mouth. She might finally understand what the fuss is about; why all her fellow apprentices were constantly disappearing into alcoves and empty rooms.

She wants to ask him. She wants to find somewhere private, and ask him if he’d ever consider… being with her. In that sense. Bloody Void, this was all so much easier in her head. Her vague theories, mainly formed from Anders’ unsolicited advice and too many terrible novels, didn’t account for a man just as inexperienced as her. If he isn’t ready, or - 

She’s a bloody fool. She can run into battle against darkspawn with barely a thought, but she can’t find her courage for this, for speaking to the man she trusts most in the world. What if he turns her down? What if things do go wrong? What if she’s misread this entire situation, if -

She exhales. It’s a risk, but perhaps… She’ll find the time, and she’ll find the words. She wants it to be right: the right time, the right place. She wants him to feel special.

So she holds her tongue and she waits, and if she seems distracted, she pretends that her boots have got holes in them again.

She’s by a river some way from camp, freshly bathed, trying to put her clothes back on and thinking that she might not have dried off as well as she thought, when Leliana says, “I was wondering if you might like some… advice.”

She turns, confused, to where her friend is sitting on a boulder, already dressed, cross-legged and graceful. “Advice?”

Leliana replies, “In… matters of the heart, and the body. Zevran would call it something rather different, but he is… well, Zevran.”

It takes her a moment, and then she gathers the meaning of her friend’s words. She freezes, her shirt half-laced, and feels her face go red. “I.. oh. _Advice_. Why do you think I need, er, advising?”

Leliana seems as if she’s trying to restrain a smile. “Because you are considering taking action. It’s in your eyes.”

If possible, Morgana becomes even more embarrassed, curling in on herself and wincing. “It is?” She has a sudden thought, and she can’t help but ask, “And what about Alistair? Is he…”

She looks up and Leliana is smirking. “I’m surprised you have to ask. He is far less subtle about it than you.”

Oh. _Oh_. She stares at Leliana, trying desperately to find her words, attempting not to think of the implications and failing. “You mean he wants - ” She bites her knuckles, too embarrassed to complete that thought in company. The thought of him thinking of it, or fantasising… “I… I see.”

“Tell me to butt out if you wish, but there may be ways to make things easier. Perhaps certain things haven’t occurred to you.”

She pauses, unable to help considering that thought, and then she’s sitting next to Leliana, wide-eyed and preparing herself to listen. “Easier?”

The days pass, and she’s gathering firewood, the forest quiet around her, when she hears footsteps. Careful, measured, thoughtful. The Taint in her blood sings, and she looks over her shoulder. “Alistair?”

He offers her a smile; it’s brief, there and then gone. He looks at her, and she knows she isn’t imagining the pink on his cheeks - then he’s looking intently at a tree. She wonders what he’s thinking: usually he’s affectionate and quick to greet her, but there must be a foot between them, and he hasn’t spoken yet. He bites his lip, and she hears him swallow. “Morgana…” He sighs. “Alright, I guess I really don’t know how to ask you this…”

She doesn’t prod him. Whatever it is must be important, because Alistair is a master of talking a lot and saying little; when he’s silent, it’s a guarantee that the words will change things, when they come. She waits, looking at his blush and the way he fiddles with his gauntlets and trying to work out what has him so wound up.

He stumbles through his words, and it takes her a few seconds to realise what he’s asking.

“I want to spend the night with you. Here, in the camp.”

“Oh.” She doesn’t mean to say it; her voice is small, and she stands with her mouth open, a blush crawling up her own cheeks. Yet beneath the surprise, she finds she’s happy. She wonders whether she should postpone things further, but her heart is leaping at the offer. 

He wants her. All of her worry, and he wants her. He trusts her with this.

She takes his hands, needing to ask. “Are you sure?”

He turns her hands over in his, toying with them, running his thumbs over her knuckles. Innocent as it is, the contact still makes her shiver. He speaks softly, looking into her eyes, in that tone he reserves only for her.

_I can’t imagine being without you. Not ever._

She takes a step towards him without realising it, only the fact she wants to hear the rest stopping her from holding him, because _yes_. That’s exactly it, and she tells him so.

And then he says something, in amongst recounting the Blight and all their misadventures and how very wrong things have gone, that makes her pause: _I still found myself falling for you._ It’s low, seeming accidental, a truth he hadn’t intended to tell. He looks at her as he says it; she sees his eyes, and she believes him, utterly.

“Falling for me?” she echoes, so quietly that she’s certain he hasn’t heard.

His hands are shaking, and he’s still nervous, waiting for an answer. It’s unfair to keep him in suspense.

She begins, “I had the same thought, about things needing to be perfect. But you’re right. That perfect world… I would never have found you. I think I prefer this one. Maybe this is our sort of perfect.”

He smiles at that, shaky, uncertain. “Maybe it is.”

She looks down at herself. “I’m not exactly perfect, either.” She can’t help saying it; worry is rising in her throat again. “I don’t know any more than you, and I doubt I’m built like the heroines of Wynne’s novels. I would understand if…”

Surprise crosses his face, and then he’s stepping closer, looking into her eyes and saying roughly, “I want _you_. You’re… you’re all I want.”

“Oh.” She feels herself blushing, but the way he looks at her… “Are the others asleep?” she manages, when she’s regained her train of thought.

“Sten and Zevran are taking watch. Everyone else is. I found a place. It’s… a little out of the way, but we’ll hear if anyone calls.”

She swallows. “Then yes, I’d very much like to spend the night with you.”

He grins at her, evidently relieved, and steps forward to kiss her deeply, tenderly. He wraps his arms around her, and she rests against him, running her hands over his shoulders. There’s something different in this kiss: it’s gentle but anticipatory, and he deepens it in a way he’d never do with company. He draws back, taking her hand with a small, secret smile. She follows him gladly, biting her lip, trying not to grin.

Of course, then they have to... not just start, but _start._

She doesn’t know quite how this happened, and truthfully, she’s still waiting to wake up. They’ve stoked up the campfire, taken off their boots and armour, he’s offering her his hand, and she’s climbing into his tent, and then…

And then they wait, kneeling on the blankets he’s laid down, watching each other in the silence. Her courage is rapidly deserting her. In the novels, it wasn’t so bloody _awkward_. She knows what she wants - she wants to kiss him, she wants… everything, but how is she meant to ask? Her hands are shaking, and… She thinks again that this was so much easier when it was all in her head. What if she gets it wrong? What if she hurts him?

He gives her a nervous smile. He’s slightly flushed, and he glances at the ground, eyelashes brushing his cheeks. He looks like everything she’s ever wanted, and somehow that makes her more afraid. “So,” he says, with a strained laugh, “we could… play cards?”

She laughs too, even if it’s weak and shaky. “I thought you might have other ideas. But I’m sure I have some…” She starts to move, makes to climb out of the tent.

He takes her arm, sliding his hand down to wrap his fingers around hers. They’re warm and strong, but he’s trembling. “Or… maybe you’re right. Other ideas.” He tugs on her hand.

It’s the gentlest movement, more of a suggestion than a pull, but she moves with it until she’s kissing him, taking his face in her hands, their foreheads pressed together. It’s a bit desperate, because she’s really not sure where to begin and this is the only thing that she knows: him, and this.

They break apart and he blinks at her. “Wow,” he says, still breathless. “You really do want this.”

She can’t quite look at him, afraid it’ll say too much. “If… If you do.” She feels him touch her face. He strokes her cheek, and she makes herself meet his eye, because this is Alistair, and she has to know.

He watches her, his face soft. “ _Yes_ ,” he says, and then he pulls her across and kisses her. It’s gentle, but she can almost taste the longing in it: it’s deep, open-mouthed, slow as if he’s savouring it. She finds herself shifting closer to him, needing more. His hand is on the small of her back, encouraging her, and it feels right.

It’s only when she takes a moment to breathe that she realises she’s all but climbed into his lap. She stops, her arms still around his neck. Her face must be flaming. “I… Sorry.”

He looks at her, dark-eyed. “Don’t be,” he says, and then he’s reaching for her again.

It starts gentle, nipping and tasting. Eventually it loses most of its finesse and they’re pressed together, sharing breath, desperately needing _more, closer_. She finds herself shifting, pulling him with her, fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt, until she’s on her back, still kissing him. She loses herself in it: the warmth and the weight of him, reassuring. He feels so good under her hands. She wants to tell him, but she can’t put it into words.

She feels him pause. He draws back to look at her. “Look, I… I understand if there are any second thoughts. I mean, I’m not exactly…”

He’s trailed off, but she can’t let that stand. “Not exactly what?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it again. Frowns at a point somewhere near her left ear. “It doesn’t matter.”

It does. He looks so uncertain, and he shouldn’t be, he’s… She reaches up, runs a thumb across his cheekbone. “I think you’re wonderful,” she tells him, her heart in her throat. “I kept meaning to ask you for… for this.”

His eyes widen. “Well,” he says, with a slight, breathy laugh, “that’s reassuring. You know, you say the nicest things - ”

She pulls him back down before he can talk himself into a panic, pressing her mouth to his before gripping his shoulders and moving to kiss the line of his jaw, touching her lips to his neck. He inhales sharply, and it turns into a moan: quiet, unintentional. The sound does something to her. She’s heard it before, but rarely, and usually she’s seen his embarrassment and neglected to mention it. Now - now she wants to hear it again. She lays her mouth to his throat, closing her eyes at his harsh breathing, the scrape of stubble against her lips, and allows her tongue to touch his skin, just barely.

“ _Oh_ ,” he murmurs, ragged.

She mouths at his pulse: feeling it flutter, feeling him tremble under her hands, muscle tensing beneath her fingers. She moves back to ask him, “Is that… is that good?”

He stares at her a moment, his mouth opening, then cups her face and kisses her. She gasps against his mouth, but he’s already kissing his way down her cheek, tilting her chin to kiss her neck, her throat, pressing rough, open-mouthed kisses against her skin. Her eyes flutter shut, and she tries to think, to… She knows she’s making low noises, and she wants to be self-conscious, to wonder if she sounds as good as he does, but instead she lies back, baring her throat. Half of her thinks she could stay like this forever, and the other half… Everything is a haze of _more_ and _yes_ and _now_. She touches his shoulders, trying to find a grip, pulling him closer. He laughs, and she feels it vibrate against her skin. “Is that an answer?”

“It might be,” she manages in a gasp.

That laugh again, and then he resumes his work, kissing her as if he wants to see what he can do to her, how much of a mess he can make of her. She finds her back arching, her legs wrapping around his waist to pull him closer, and she feels… _Oh_. He freezes, and she realises she’s said it aloud.

“I…” he begins. His mouth clicks shut, and he grimaces.

“Can I be flattered?” she says.

He huffs a laugh, resting his head against her shoulder. “That… was not the response I was expecting.”

She shrugs. “Not like it’s the first time.”

He raises his head to stare at her, wide-eyed. “And you just… _didn’t mention it?_ ”

“I didn’t want to embarrass you. But” - and she moves closer, brings her leg back around to pull him to her - “it feels good.”

He makes a choked sound, his hips bucking against hers. “Maker. Of course you’d just…” She wants to keep going, to move with him and feel _him_ , all of him - but his hands move to her waist, creeping under the hem of her shirt. “Can I?”

She tries not to show her nervousness, and nods. She shifts to sit up, and he scrambles to give her space. He returns his hands to her waist, moves them upwards, pulling fabric with them. She shivers as his fingers skim her sides, her ribs, and reaches to help him pull it over her head. The shirt falls to the floor, and she says, in the silence that follows, “Might as well.” He opens his mouth, probably to ask what she means, but she’s fiddling with her breastband, determined to get it off before her courage deserts her. “Bloody…” she mutters, wincing and certain that the expression on her face will make him laugh until they forget what they were doing, or look so ugly that he’ll run for it. She finally removes it, throwing it aside.

He’s not saying anything.

Fear rises in her. She’s too aware of her wide shoulders, the scars and muscle from her months on the road. He’s probably regretting this, regretting telling her that she’s what he wants. She looks up, and…

He’s staring at her, wide-eyed, as if he doesn’t know what to say. She crosses her arms over her breasts, shrinking. He shakes his head, reaching out tentatively to touch her side. “You’re beautiful.” His voice is rough, and she realises that the look in his eyes isn’t revulsion: it’s more like… reverence. When he touches her arms, a gentle request, she moves them and lets him see her. He runs his hands over her shoulders, touches her waist. “Is this from the training?”

She nods. She wants to bask in the way he’s watching her, touching her - his eyes bright, as if he’s not quite sure she’s real - but the thought won’t leave her. “I’m… at rather a disadvantage.” She tugs at the hem of his shirt.

He looks down at himself, startled. “Oh. Right.” She sees him hesitate, swallow, and wonders what he expects. She thought she’d made it clear how much he fascinates her, how much she loves looking at him. Perhaps she was wrong.

He pulls his shirt over his head, putting it aside, and gives her a sheepish grin. She shifts forwards to get a better look. She’s seen him without a shirt before, but this is different. She wasn’t so close, and he wasn’t looking at her nervously, waiting for her approval. His skin’s golden in the firelight, and she hadn’t realised he’d be quite so… big. He’s strong, even more than she’d expected, all muscle and scars. Half of those scars are probably from deflecting blows meant for her. He looks, utterly, like a warrior, and perhaps she should be afraid, but instead she’s entranced. She reaches out a tentative hand, looking at him, and when he doesn’t move to stop her, she traces the breadth of his shoulders, runs a hand down his chest. She’s spent so long wanting to touch, and she’s still not entirely sure how this can be happening. He watches the motion of her hand, looking back to her face every so often, as if he’s curious to see what she’s thinking. When she brushes her hand over his stomach, that quiet inhale comes again, and she watches muscle jump under her fingertips. “Beautiful,” she murmurs.

She raises her head and sees that he’s looking at her in surprise. Then he smiles, small and soft. “You’re not so bad yourself.” He strokes her face, his hand moving to her neck, her collarbone, and hesitates. “Can I?”

In answer, she takes his hand and moves it. He’s warm, and while his skin is slightly rough, his grip is gentle. At the first touch of his fingers, she gasps under her breath; she can’t help it. His thumb brushes her nipple and something lights in her. It makes her stomach clench, has her shifting her hips to seek friction that isn’t there.

He startles slightly. “That good?”

She nods, and realises after a moment that she’s drawing her shoulders back, pushing into his hand. She wonders what he’s doing when he leans across, but then he kisses at her neck, his hands stroking, teasing. She feels herself being eased back down, but can’t bring herself to care. She just keeps touching him, feeling him steady above her, grounding herself.

He says, “Maker, and this is just when you’ve got your shirt off. I’ll be a wreck.”

She grins, running a hand through his hair, suddenly so very glad that she never settled for a fumble in a closet; that she’s doing with this him, the man she… Well. She promises herself she’ll tell him.

When he kisses her breasts, she makes a noise that’s frankly embarrassing, and she feels him smile, evidently pleased with himself. He lays kisses over them, and then moves to her stomach before brushing his mouth below her navel, and she feels herself tense.

He pauses, looks up at her. “There’s something I’ve… been wanting to try. And feel free to call me a terrible pervert, but…”

She mumbles, her hand to her face, “Have you been talking to Zev?”

“Leliana, actually,” he replies. “But even before that, there was that book you’re so fond of.”

“Bloody - “ she mutters, throwing her head back so she won’t have to look at him. She sneaks a glance. “Is it the thing on page twenty-three?”

“Page twenty-three,” he confirms cheerfully, with a nod.

“Then… yes,” she says. “Please,” she adds, and it comes out too breathy.

“Good,” he says. He kisses her hipbone, and she feels him push away the fabric of her breeches. A little more, and a little more, until he’s pulling them down, slowly but inexorably, and… Oh Maker, he’s taken her smalls, too. She feels the cool air, and her toes curl. She fights the urge to curl in on herself and save her dignity, but this is Alistair. He won’t laugh at her. At least, not cruelly. She looks down just a moment or two, to help him get the breeches off her feet, and then resumes staring at the canvas of the tent. Her face must be the colour of a strawberry, she knows.

She feels the slightest scratch of stubble as he kisses her thigh - and it is slight; he must have shaved before he asked her to come back here with him, and now she has a feeling she knows why. It brings a new wave of heat to her face, but sends something flickering low in her stomach, too. 

“Gorgeous,” he says, and there’s that roughness she’s rarely heard in his voice. It brings to mind the times when he’s kissed her desperately and looked at her, spoken to her, like she’s a gift, something rare and precious.

She waits, her heart in her throat, feeling his gaze shiver up her spine like it’s a touch…

And then he touches her, just a brush of his palm. She bites her lip to prevent herself from making a sound. He quests further, and his fingers are gentle, but it’s more than enough. The combination of the feeling, and the fact that it’s him and she’s never let anyone else touch her like this before… She can’t help herself; she’s spreading her legs, shifting further to help him, and she should be embarrassed but she can’t when it all feels so good.

Sounding amazed, he says, “You’re already so… I hadn’t…” His voice is wry when he manages, “Can I be flattered?”

She tries to explain, saying before she can help herself, “It’s better than - ” She cuts herself off, flushing further. She feels him stop - _why_ \- and finally looks at him, if just to glare at him.

He’s looking at her, intrigued. He’s flushed, dishevelled, and there’s something fiendish in the tilt of his lips. “Better than - ?” he prompts, and there’s a teasing lilt to his voice. He’s going to make her say it, isn’t he?

She sighs. “Than when it’s just me,” she manages, through gritted teeth.

He licks his lips, and behind the nervousness in his face is something darker, deeper. “I hoped you might say that. Can you show me how to… to touch you? Just to make sure?”

She should probably be mortified, but he’s watching her so patiently, and… she wants him to, so badly it hurts. She takes his hand, and leads it to - “There,” she says, pressing, and she’s already squirming at the feel of it. He takes her lead, stroking gently. Her toes curl, her thighs tensing. Her eyes want to close, but she keeps them open, watching the expression on his face: it’s something like wonder.

“Wow,” she hears him say quietly.

The sight of it, all of it, is too much, already pushing her towards the edge. She turns her head, her eyes falling shut. She takes back her hand, ending up with it at her side, her fingers clenching in the blankets. She wonders what that strange noise is and realises she’s gasping, her hips moving, chasing a rhythm. It’s coiling in her stomach, tingling down her spine…

And then he stops.

She thinks distantly she might murder him, but that would require getting up, and he seems to be parting her legs -

Something hot and wet. It curls against her and she judders, her eyes flying open. His tongue, she realises as he does it again, and that makes her moan low in her throat. She’s had dreams like this, but they were different; they didn’t do it justice. He licks at her again. It echoes through her whole body, and she tries desperately to think, to regain control of herself, but she doesn’t want to. Again, and her legs fall further open, her hips rising to find his mouth. He moves deeper to taste her, and she can hear herself, and her hands ache, white-knuckled against the sheets, and she should care, she should care…

She looks down, unable to help herself, and the sight of him alone is almost enough to undo her. He smirks at her from between her legs, his hair tousled and his eyes bright.

She discovers that he has a hand on her hipbone, his thumb stroking softly, almost reassuringly. She blindly grasps it, and his fingers curl around hers. 

He presses a sweet, open-mouthed kiss to that perfect spot, and it’s -

It’s enough. It’s too much. It sends her over the edge, and she shudders, feet scrabbling for purchase, mouth open in a silent scream, gasping.

When she returns to her senses, she finds that she’s still lying there. She wants to open her eyes, but that would involve moving, and it feels like every bone in her body has turned to liquid. She exhales, trying to make herself get up. At least thank him. Something.

“Now that I wasn’t expecting,” he remarks. “Is it always like that for you?”

She blinks until she can focus, and finds that he’s moved back up and is leaning on his elbow, looking at her fondly, as if she’s just polished his armour for him or found him a new pair of boots. She pulls him down to kiss him, delighting in the surprised noise he makes and the feel of skin on skin. She can taste herself, and it’s not particularly unpleasant. She says afterwards, her chest still heaving and her breath not quite even, “Only when I’m with you.” It’s true, after all.

He beams at her, alight with it. “By the way,” he says, his eyes darting to her mouth, his face full of longing, “this is a good look on you. I should do that more often.”

She can’t help her laughter. “Agreed.” She moves the hand that’s on his shoulder down, tracing his shoulder blade, feeling the strength of him. She follows the line of his back, slipping her fingers under his waistband. “May I?”

“Please do,” he breathes against her lips.

The thought of finally _seeing_ him… It’s enough to rid her of her laziness. She kisses him quickly, then rolls them until he’s on his back. She pulls away to take off his breeches, his smalls. She pauses a moment when they’re at his knees, running an admiring hand over his thigh, before she steers them off his legs, managing despite the awkward angle with a combination of guile and strength.

“I… think you may have torn them,” he says, with the hint of an awkward laugh.

She cringes, meeting his eye. “I didn’t mean to…”

He seems more amused than perturbed. “I’ll sort them out in the morning. I’ve just… never met someone so desperate to get me naked before.”

“Then you’ve never met anyone with sense,” she mutters, and she only realises what she’s said when she hears his splutter of laughter. She puts them with the other clothes, look back to him… and stares. “Um.”

“My eyes are up here, you know.” He’s still half-laughing as he says it. Those eyes are shining, and he’s smiling at her, and she needs to do something rather than be distracted by freckles and beauty and the flush down his chest and the fact that apparently _everything_ about him is a bit bigger than she expected. It’s not as if she’s wanted this..or dreamed about this… or…

Maker, she wants to touch him so badly she aches with it. She never thought… Maker, he _wants_ her. She’d wonder if she was in the Fade, but she knows this is real.

She watches the rise and fall of his chest, looks at him, patient and trusting, and she’s swinging a leg over his hip, straddling him. She’s half-afraid she might be a bit… damp, and she shifts so she’s not quite as perilously close to what she’s mentally calling the next step, but when he looks at her tenderly and puts his hands on her hips, she thinks this might just be perfect. She traces a hand down his chest, his stomach, brushing the trail of hair she’s seen and wondered so often about following. This time, she does.

When she wraps a hand around him, trying to be gentle, he makes a low sound, his hips shifting.

“All right?” she asks.

He nods, blinking, desperately trying to regain his equilibrium.

She hesitates, uncertain. “Please… show me?”

He manages to focus. “Sure. Let me just…” He wraps his hand around hers, and she hears him mutter, “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

She marvels at how he feels: so hard, and yet unexpectedly soft, hot against her skin. Soon she’s following his movements, building up a rhythm, and she asks, “Like this?”

He just nods, taking away his hand. His eyelashes flutter, his mouth half-open, his shoulders straining, and he’s moaning low in his chest. “ _Maker_ ,” he murmurs, before he seems to lose his words. She wants to stop and stare, except that would mean losing this. She’s never seen anything like it; she can suddenly understand his eagerness, the way he wanted to learn her. She commits the image to memory, trying to do the same. She takes his hip with her other hand, giving him an anchor. She can feel him hardening further under her fingers, see the flush spreading across his skin…

It’s only a moment or two later when he sits up, gently takes her wrist and says, “Stop.” His voice is deep, hoarse; she’s never heard it like this before. He smiles at her when she does, and adds, “I just thought… this might end far too soon, otherwise.”

She realises what he’s saying, that she’s brought him so close. “Oh. We could, er, we could wait, if you want to. I’d be happy just doing this.”

He blinks at her, and then his smile widens, that fond look returning. “And things like that are exactly why I… why I want to do this properly.”

She swallows, just the thought of it enough to make her ache. Her fingers are tingling, her entire body is warm, and she wants him. She wants to see him come undone. She wants him to hold her, wants him closer. She wants him inside her.

She runs her hands up his sides, and then she meets his eyes. He’s so very earnest, his hand on her waist. She steels herself, shifts forwards -

He stops her, a hand on her chest. “I’ve heard…” And his colour is high, but he’s careful to watch her, concern but no embarrassment in his tone. “I’ve heard it can hurt. And if I do something wrong, or you want me to stop…”

“I’ll tell you,” she says firmly. “I trust you. Now let me…”

He nods, moving his hands back to her waist.

She lowers herself, keeping it slow, adjusting him with her hand. They both inhale sharply at the feeling. For a moment she’s not sure she’ll be able to manage it. She closes her eyes, recalling a grease spell in her mind…

It hurts, but it’s not as bad as she feared. She keeps the magic flowing, and she watches him. His hands tighten on her waist, and his eyes shut. He’s shaking, trying desperately to keep still. He gives a low groan before he says, “I never thought…” He looks at her, obviously working to concentrate. “How are… How are you?”

She has to take a moment to speak. It’s nothing she’s felt before. “It’s… Full,” she tries, and punctuates it with an experimental shift of her hips -

\- he moves inside her, and she feels it. What the novels and the songs and the demons talk about. She hisses through her teeth. He’s beneath her, looking at her like she might just be Andraste, and he’s beautiful, and she needs more.

She finds herself tugging on his shoulders, pulling him with her as she moves, until he’s on top of her, looking startled. “Maker, you’re strong.”

“It’s…” She loses the words. “Magic,” she manages, and then she wraps her legs around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper. 

His hips buck, and he gasps. “I…” He looks at her, wide-eyed. “ _Please_.”

She nods. He feels him slip a hand underneath her knee, supporting it, and then he moves.

It’s _almost_ right. It takes a few seconds until they slip into a rhythm, and everything changes.

It’s too much. She thinks it might kill her, and she’s not sure she’d mind. There’s nothing but the feeling, and the sound of him, and his skin on hers, and this is all she wanted. The Circle, the Blight… She can bear them for a moment of this, for him. “Alistair…” she manages. She wants to tell him she loves him, but she can’t. Not yet. After.

“Maker…” He looks at her and says, his eyes closing, “You’re… You’re beautiful… I can’t…”

Somehow, she believes him. She clings to him, trembles with the force of it, her face against his neck. All she can do is move with him. All she knows is this. She tries to think, searches for words. “I think I’m going to…” Every thrust is bringing her closer to the end, but she knows what she has to do to reach it. She moves to touch herself, rubbing, tensing, and soon she’s gasping against his skin, trying to find a grip on him. “ _Alistair_.” It’s a rough cry. She can feel healing magic coming from her in waves, bright behind her eyelids, and she can’t bring herself to care.

When she opens her eyes to look at him, she knows he’s going to come. His thrusts are uneven. His head is bowed, he’s gasping, straining, and his eyes are black in the half-light. He looks at her, plaintive, and kisses her desperately, hastily, before his eyes slide shut again. His rhythm stutters, and he curls round her, his face against her shoulder. She feels the moment it hits him. He shakes against her, groaning. He mouths something against her skin, and she realises that it’s her name. She holds him through the after, savouring the heat and solidity of him, wondering how she could ever have been allowed this.

He raises his head, and he looks like he’s just been blessed: half-dazed and joyous, smiling at her as if he can’t believe his luck. She wants to preserve the memory for the rest of her life; she’s never seen him so beautiful, and… she’s caused it. She knows she’s probably looking like she’s Fade-touched too.

It fades a little as he watches her. “It was… I wasn’t too dreadful, was I?”

“You were wonderful,” she tells him.

That smile steals over his face again. “So it wasn’t just me.” The words are hazy, pleasure-drunk. “So… we’re doing that again, right?”

She grins at him. “We’re _definitely_ doing that again.”

His face softens, and he runs a finger over her cheek, tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “If you could see yourself right now… I am so glad I met you.” He glances downwards before she can find an answer, and adds, “Less glad of the mess, though.”

He withdraws, both of them hissing at the separation, and finds some cloth. They attempt a rough, hasty cleanup, and then he settles back next to her. She grabs a sheet, throwing it over both of them, and shifts closer to him.

“Oh. There you are,” he says, wrapping an arm round her.

She can’t help her smile. It just seems to happen around him. She’s warm, she’s in his arms, he’s holding her as if he never wants to let go, and she loves him.

She remembers something, as her eyes drift closed. _Mages don’t fall in love,_ Anders had once said to her. _Have you ever noticed that? They never stick around. Like it’s a weakness._

In the Circle, she’d never even hoped… She holds him, and realises that the stories might be wrong. Maybe she can have this.

Alistair says, “Look, there’s… something I need to tell you.”

She wants to shrug, but she’s wrapped up too tightly. “I want to hear it. In the morning?”

“In the morning,” he says, a smile in his voice, and she feels him drop a kiss onto her forehead. He’s still holding her when she finds her way into the Fade.

She’s warm. Even the summers in Ferelden are at best mild, and she’s used to waking with a slight chill, having to pull the covers closer. Today she wakes up feeling like she’s been sitting by the fire, or like…

She registers arms around her waist, a strong heat at her back, and realises: Alistair. Even asleep, he curls around her like he’s protecting her, his hands gentle on her skin. She reaches to run her fingers along his arm, still unable to believe this is quite real, and that brings with it memories of the previous night. She shoves her cheek further into the pillow, her face heating, and feels the strangest urge to laugh. She doesn’t; she’d rather not wake him, and she’s terrified it would come out as some sort of giggle. She’s already smiling like a fool at nothing in particular. If she’s not careful, she’ll be turning into something out of Leliana’s bloody ballads.

He shifts behind her, and she hears him murmur, “You’re laughing.” He runs his hands over her shoulders. “I can feel it. I wasn’t that bad, was I?”

“Oh! Oh, no. Not at all.” She shuffles away slightly and turns to face him. “I was just… happy.” It sounds so silly now she says it like that.

He doesn’t laugh at her. Instead he grins and says, “I know how you feel. I was just thinking that there are far worse ways to wake up.”

“So you…” She sobers, swallowing. “You don’t regret it?”

With a huff of laughter, he says, “Why would I?” Then worry settles over his face. “You don’t, do you?”

She shakes her head, walking her fingers along his collarbone, only half-aware she’s doing it at all. “I simply… I never thought it would feel like this. That I’d be allowed this.”

She half-wonders if she’ll ever be able to stop touching him. He’s frowning at the ceiling of the tent, lost in thought, but she’s looking at him, tracing old scars and muscle. She knew he’d be strong, but she didn’t account for him being quite so –

 _Beautiful_ , she thinks, and when he looks at her in surprise, she realises she’s said it aloud. Again. She hides behind her hair and mutters, “I… er…”

He stares at her. “You actually mean that, don’t you? Maker. I never thought I’d meet someone who’d say that about me.” He watches her for a moment, his eyes dark, thoughtful, and then says, “I keep thinking the same about you. There were such dire lectures about mages, about the dangers of even speaking to them, let alone… well.” An awkward half-laugh. “But all I can think,” he continues, stroking a hand under her chin, “is that all my disobedience, all of this, it brought me you. The monastery had all these grim tales of sin, or falling prey to dark magic…”

She gently presses her palm to his chest. “I’m not very good with dark magic. Perhaps I could muster a fireball, if it would help your conscience.”

“You know” – and he takes her hand, kissing her fingers – “I can think of much better uses for these. If you’d like to discuss them in more detail.” The way he looks at her – there’s nervousness behind it, but it still makes her go pink.

“I… I’d like that,” she manages.

It’s in the moments after that particular discussion, when he looks at her with hope and something like fear in his eyes, that he says it: “Have I mentioned I love you?”

 _Oh_. She’d hoped, but hearing it, knowing that it’s true, is different. It’s like being given a gift.

She’s been so afraid of telling him, but somehow here, now, it’s the most natural thing in the world to reply, “I love you too.” She’s been thinking it for so long, whether or not she wanted to admit it, and finally saying it is a relief. 

When she sees that bright, surprised joy dawn on his face – the same she saw when she accepted the rose, when she told him she cared for him, too – she can’t help but kiss him. She tries to show just how much she means it, the weight of it. The words feel so wonderful on her tongue that she can’t help but repeat them, and she needs to reiterate it, to explain. “I love you, Alistair.”

He beams at her. “See, was that so hard?”

She replies, with some surprise, “Not at all.”

They manage to take about an hour for themselves. They spend it wrapped around each other talking, basking in each other’s warmth, enjoying their new situation.

“I meant what I said,” she tells him. When he just gives her a questioning look, she says, “On the ‘head-exploding’ front. I look at you and I… well. You drive me quite mad.”

All that does is make him grin at her. “Oh really?” he asks, laughing and raising his eyebrows.

“Really,” she confirms, and she reaches to kiss him, pulling him closer…

“Alistair?” she hears Leliana call, somewhere outside the tent.

They both sigh, and she presses her forehead against his chest. He gently disentangles himself, sitting up and calling back, “I’m awake!”

“Good,” Leliana replies. Her footsteps pause. “Oh, and have you seen Morgana at all? She wasn’t in her tent.” There’s a wry tone to her voice.

Morgana belatedly realises that she left her boots and most of her armour outside the tent, meaning that her sleeping arrangements are probably painfully obvious, and she burrows under the blankets in mortification.

“I’ll…” He looks at her, as if appealing for help, and she shrugs. “If I see her, I’ll tell her you’ve been looking for her.”

“Thank you,” Leliana says. Her footsteps begin to fade, until she pauses, adding, “I expect to see both of you at breakfast.”

Then they’re alone once again, and Morgana is laughing silently, a hand over her mouth.

He mock-glares at her. “Alright, now you’re laughing at me.”

She just nods, and when she’s regained her composure, she tells him, “You’re an awful liar. It’s one of the things I love about you.”

She sees that same surprise cross his face, the way he lights up at the words, and she swears to herself that she will keep saying it as much as they both need.

**Author's Note:**

> This was actually written back in 2016, but somehow I never got round to uploading it here? Anyhow.


End file.
